The Beekeeper's Son
by Simply Shelby
Summary: Jonathan Russell is all the son of Sherlock Holmes should be, and more. But, after moving to a secluded cottage in the Sussex Downs in an attempt to find himself, his wife watches as he slips further and further away from himself and his family.


**The Beekeeper's Son  
By Simply Shelby**

**Commencement**

I was thirteen when I first made the acquaintance of the son of the famous Sherlock Holmes, thirteen and in the mood for an adventure.

It was the end of Trinity term at Oxford and I was on my summer holidays from a finishing school in Switzerland. My parents had died when I was small and I was left to my grandfather. The poor old man knew nothing outside of Oxford and his pupils and had no idea what to do with a young girl, save send her away.

So, an adventure in mind, I set out to find a companion. I found the person in question sitting on the banks of the river, cursing softly at a book he held at arms length.

"It can't hear you," I explained, hands on my hips.

He didn't turn around, or make any move that acknowledged my presence. "I know," he said finally, "I'm not completely daft." He threw the book in the grass beside him. "How does a girl of thirteen get away with being outdoors without shoes, gloves, or a chaperone?" he did not wait for an answer. "Though, I suppose, your grandfather could care less, that is why he sent you off to Switzerland, I presume. You are quite used to running more or less wild."

I gaped. "How did you—" But, my question would have been senseless to ask. I recognised him. He was the son of the woman who had been married to the Great Detective from the _Strand _stories.

He folded his hands to cradle his raven head and glanced up at me. "Unlike my father, I am not in the habit of explaining my methods." He collected his book and stood to his feet. "And, if you'll excuse me, Miss Browne, I prefer to conduct my studies alone and in silence."

I couldn't stand how arrogant he was. "Except, you can't have a _bar mitzvah_ while your mother's in Berlin, Mr…" I paused, "Only I'm not sure which name you prefer."

He tucked the hard-covered copy of the _Torah_ under his arm and his stormy grey eyes reassessed me with a fleeting look. "Russell. Jonathan Levi Russell."

I offered my hand, as was proper, introduced myself, and began the adventure of my life. "Sarah Browne."

We had what some would deem a "whirlwind courtship." I only saw him in the summer and during my Christmas holidays, while the remainder of our lives was communicated through letters and packages.

He waited until the summer of my eighteenth year, his twentieth, for the question to appear in his eyes and the moment I saw it I nodded. We were married at a registry office over a week-end in July. His mother was overjoyed; my grandfather could have cared less. Jonathan had a job in London, important, high up in the government, and inherited from his Uncle, a fact he recounted to me after six months of marriage. Moving to London was of little consequence to me. I'd lived in so many places over the years, one more was hardly life-changing.

Two years later, Judith Loren Russell was born. A tiny perfect person with my copper-coloured hair and the tempestuous blue-grey eyes of a Holmes child. Jonathan was tentative with her, as most new fathers often are, but he proved to be a greater parent than I could have imagined.

Six years later, Mary Russell passed away and my husband moved us from our home in Pall Mall to a small cottage on the Sussex Downs.

And that is where this story begins.

I settled a sleeping Judith into her seat just as the train lurched forward. I caught myself with one hand and the other hand flew to my stomach, in a vain endeavor to settle it before taking my seat beside my husband. God, I hated country trains. My eyes slipped closed and I took a few cleansing breaths.

The man beside me was indifferent to the effects of the poor conditions of the railroad tracks. His eyes were focused on the packet of papers in his lap. He read so slowly, cautiously going over each word with an excruciating care he used to put into our marriage. I had learned long ago that reading over his shoulder was not to be tolerated. The papers in his care were some of the nation's best kept secrets, or were on their way to becoming so. Vaguely, I wondered how the British government would go on with it's "most indispensable man" living in the countryside.

I must have fallen asleep, for I was awoken by Judith tugging on the sleeve of my cardigan. "Mummy? Mummy, we're here."

I stood to help my husband with the luggage we had decided to carry on with us. The rest was on it's way via truck. Judith hugged her stuffed rabbit to her chest, copper curls bouncing and a smile on her face. "Stay close," I told her as we stepped onto the platform, expecting it to be crowded, to find it was practically deserted.

We followed Jonathan to the car he had hired to take us to the cottage, avoiding the deeper puddles, but falling prey to the squelching mud. It was just coming into spring and the melting winter frost combined with the drizzling rain made for mucky terrain. When Judith began to whine that her feet were sinking, I scooped her up, almost toppling over, and cursing myself for having neither a pair of wellies nor an umbrella handy.

The drive to the cottage was long, miserable, and wet. By the time we were settled in for the night, I was beyond exhausted. I scraped together a meager supper, built a fire in the hearth, tucked my daughter into her new bed, and joined my husband in ours.

Despite my doubts and qualms about the new home, the new life, I slept deeply that first night.

* * *

**AN: **For those who didn't catch it, Jonathan has taken over Mycroft's role in the government. Tell me what you think. 


End file.
